


Sailing On A Sunrise

by turnyourankle



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Always-a-girl, Angst, F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-31
Updated: 2008-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:04:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard getting sober changes the band in more than one way. Frankie has to deal with playing with her ex, and adapting to a new drummer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sailing On A Sunrise

  
_The bravest that I've ever been was when I ran away from you._   


  
Brian is waiting for them at the airport. He looks stiff, shoulders tense, pose arranged. The bright plastic chair he's sitting in is swallowing him up. He has rings under his eyes and there's a gigantic Starbucks cup on the seat next to his. He looks like he's spent the past few nights stuck on the phone, talking people down from trees.

A mixture of guilt and relief gnaws at Frankie's gut when she sees him. The knowledge that she's part of the reason he seems to have one foot in the grave licks at her insides, but she doesn't have the energy to care anymore. He's the only one who can figure out a way to fix the collective headache they've been suffering from, and he wouldn't be here if he didn't care to try.

He gets up and snaps his cell phone shut when he sees her, nods. For a second it looks like he might start yelling; all the lines in his face crisp and defined, but he leans in instead, wrapping one arm around her. It's a tight hug, and his chin digs into her shoulder. She doesn't want to let go.

“Hey, hey, we got you here in one piece, let's keep it that way, okay?” he says, voice soft, and grip loosening. He's trying to smile, teeth bared and gums showing, she can see his tongue pressing against his palate.

She nods, adjusts her backpack; the counter-weight the only thing keeping her upright. Brian's face changes when he notices the rest of the guys coming through the arrival gates, their walking stilted, heavy luggage trailing behind them.

Brian's smile sharpens and he directs his attention towards Gerard first as he ambles towards them, last in the group and face obscured by sunglasses. Brian's quick to wrap his arms around him, and mouths something in his ear. Gerard seems surprised, and his body relaxes in Brian's grip.

Gerard pushes the glasses up to his forehead as he attaches himself to the coffee Brian gives him. His eyes are red and swollen, but he looks happier than he has all week. His eyes dart across Frankie's face, and she has to avert her stare.

“I see you're playing favorites,” Mikey says, before slinging an arm around Brian and squeezing him. The corners of Brian's eyes crinkle and he laughs before shaking Ray's hand and patting him on the back.

“Back from the future. The past. Wait. Which is it?” Matt says, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye. “I can never remember.”

“I don't think anyone has the brain capacity enough to figure that out right now,” Ray says, voice deflated, and shrugs.

“Not exactly a priority either,” Matt huffs, and claps Brian's shoulder, fist closed. ”Thanks for picking us up man.”

Brian clears his throat, keeps his eyes fixed on Gerard. “Yeah, I figured I'd drive Mikey and Gerard home.” He looks over at Frankie and Ray, says, ”there's a cab waiting for Ray. Frankie, I'm not sure if you're hitting up the Way house or your own place? I'm sure the cab can take you if you're going home.”

Gerard hides his face behind the coffee, and Mikey looks at her apologetically. She nudges Ray's shoulder and he yawns. She says, “Wouldn't pass up spending time with this charmer for anything.”

Brian turns to Matt. “Rachel's right outside, the car's stalling and she didn't want to risk getting a ticket.” Matt laughs, the sound empty and hollow.

”I guess that's my cue, huh,” he says, shifting his weight. He waves at them, awkwardly.

”Hey, wait up, give me a hug,” Frankie says, and stands on her toes leaning into him. She digs her face into his shirt, eyes closed, and whispers _sorrysorrysorry_.

He lets go, says, “See ya soon kiddo,” and ruffles her hair. She doesn't look him in the eye; none of them do.

  
She stays curled up to Ray in the backseat of the cab as he dozes off. She watches as the flashes of light on the seats for patterns, and pretends the heaviness in her chest is misplaced drowsiness.

.

There's a faint smell of cigarettes in Frankie's apartment, even though she's kept almost all windows open since her return. It's coming from the curtains in her bedroom; the only place she'd let Gerard smoke, cracking the window open for him so he could blow it all out.

Aside from the smell, Gerard's left exactly six things at her place: a sketchbook, a copy of Doom Patrol, a pack of cigarettes, three old markers in a plastic box, a t-shirt and a toothbrush. The toothbrush ends up in the trash, and the pack of Marlboros in her back pocket. She can't bring herself to throw out the sketchbook or the comic, and slips them inside a brown padded envelope that she marks with a thick black 'G', using one of the markers he left behind.

She finishes two of his cigarettes before stuffing the shirt and the markers in there too; finishes two more before taking out the shirt and putting it on. It's still creased from having lain in her drawer for months, and it still smells like Gerard, even though she can't remember the last time she saw him wearing it.

“You're not playing until Philly,” Brian says when he calls. ”I'm emailing you the revised schedule right...now. Bryar's meeting you there, there's gonna be some rehearsal space set up so you won't be going in completely blind.” He sighs, and she can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, mile long to-do list pinned to the notice board next to his computer. “Get some rest, okay? Reset that body clock.”

“I, yeah.” She tightens her grip on the phone, trying hard not to let her voice tremble. “How, how'd it go?”

“It's taken care of.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“I know. But it's not something you should be worrying about. It's not gonna to do you any good right now. It's probably not gonna do you any good, ever. Get some sleep, load up on anti-oxidants and vitamins. Say hi to your mom.”

“Okay.”

“Good. I'll talk to you later.” He pauses and clears his throat, as if he's hesitant to continue. “Listen, I'm sorry about what happened. With Gee, not, you know. And I know it's none of my business right now. I hope it stays that way.” His voice is soft, but the words sting, twisting in Frankie's gut. She has to stop herself from hurling the phone at the wall.

Her voice is cutting when she says, “Thanks.” Her fingers shake as she hangs up, and her limbs feel heavy and tired.

She bites her lip, tongue pressing against her piercing. She buries her face into Gerard's shirt, the only scent bleeding through that of her deodorant and nail polish.

  
.

Frankie's key is already in the lock when she realizes her key privileges probably don't apply anymore. She rings the bell and tucks her key – _the_ key – into the the paper bag she brought along. She can hear the hollow sound from where she is, and the longer it echoes the heavier the bag in her arms feels.

Mikey's not wearing his glasses when he opens the door. “Hey. Is this Friday?” He asks like he's been wondering all day, narrowing his eyes and scratching his ear. It's as if he was expecting her, listening as she almost let herself in, watching from the peephole.

“What? _Oh_ , no, still got a few days. That jet-lagged, huh?”

He shrugs. “It's just really dark in here. Kinda messes with your sense of time.”

“Yeah, I guess it kinda would. I've got giftage with me.” She grins wide, hoping it comes across as authentic.

Mikey takes the paper bag tentatively, says, “Oh. Uh, come in, I guess.” He leaves the door open and fades into the darkness of the hall, stalking into the kitchen with the bag. She follows him, casting a glance at the closed basement door. If Mikey's home Gerard has to be too.

“I was at that coffee shop near my place and they had a special on the fair trade blends, so I couldn't really resist. And you know how shit my coffeemaker is, the end result is only a tiny bit better than the instant shit. Or so Gee says.” She toes off her shoes, sits in the spot at the table that's always been hers. It doesn't feel like hers anymore.

“I see.”

“I'm guessing you've talked to Brian?”

“Yeah, he came by with Ray yesterday, after seeing Otter,” he says and makes a gesture with his hand as he finishes loading up the coffee machine. His words loop around in her head in the same rhythm as the coffee dripping into the pot, sinking in.

“I don't think Ray took it very well,” Mikey says. The coffee's not done when he pours two cups; the dripping in from the machine still steady and regular. Frankie can't remember a single time Gerard didn't pull that same trick to get strongest dose, leaving everyone else with watery shit.

“S'to be expected,” she says, taking her cup and sipping some of the coffee. It scalds her tongue, and she swallows it with a wince.

Mikey sips his coffee in silence, handing her a spoon when he grabs one, scooping sugar into his mug. She dips hers in the sugar bowl and licks it clean. She expects Gerard to stumble in any second, feet shuffling and voice high, but the house is silent. She clears her throat. “Did Gee get rid of his java addiction too, or like, d'you think he'd want some?”

“His therapist doesn't think it'd be a good idea,” Mikey says slowly.

“That he drinks coffee? That's a new one.”

If Mikey were wearing his glasses the look he gives her would be coming from over their frames, assessing. “No. He's got this theory about attachment and responses and falling back into certain states of mind with certain people.”

“Oh. Oh, of course. _I'm_ the bad influence in this scenario then. The bad guy.” Her jaw juts out instinctively, and she has to refrain herself from finding that therapist and pouring her coffee into his lap. “Do I get one of those, villain masks with the part? If I'm the bad guy I should have a matching outfit. Or do I just get a sign that says 'Caution: May Cause Alcoholism and Drug Abuse'? I hope it's not yellow ’cause it really washes out my tattoos.”

“I didn't say that.”

“No, but it's really fucking clear you agree.” Her vision blurs for a second, and she knows she has to get out.

“Fran – ”

“Don't call me that. Don't fucking think you can tell me I can't see him, and then _dare_ to call me that. God, Mikey. You're so clueless sometimes. So fucking clueless.” She's practically hissing, voice strained. She's clenching her fist, and her nails are digging into her palm. “Enjoy the fucking coffee.”

  
.

The last time Frankie had a rage black out was two years ago: a bouncer at a punk show refused to let her in unless she gave him a blow job. He was more than twice her size, and laughed at her when she punched him in the gut, actually pet her head as if she were a disobedient dog.

She lunged at him instinctively, and doesn't remember what happened next. When her vision stopped swimming the guy was on the ground, spitting blood. Brian had her arms trapped and she was kicking into the air.

The envelope with Gerard's things is on her kitchen table, mocking her. Sweeping it to the floor yields nothing as it thuds dissatisfyingly, intensifying the ache in her jaw. She snaps then, lobbing the glasses lined up on the dish rack onto the floor. The smashes are loud and clear, and her skin hums from the destruction.

She only snaps out of it when there's nothing left to throw; her kitchen floor coated with tiny glass shards. She doesn't remember crying, but her face is swollen. She doesn't like perpetuating the angry punk kid stereotype, even if there's no one around to see it. She smokes until her voice is raw, and she thinks she can see the wallpaper yellowing before her eyes.

  
.

“One chord, one note, one word at a time. No pressure,” Brian yells to them backstage, before they go on. It's all Frankie can remember him saying since the tour started. Neither his expression or words have changed. Their playing is beginning to hover above acceptable, so it must be working, but it's getting on Frankie's nerves.

Aside from that, he does a lot of watching. She's starting to feel like a beetle trapped under a glass, with the ability to look at her observers. She'd be fine if he wasn't so intent on looking at her as if she were a ticking bomb. She gets closer to punching a whole in the wall everytime she catches him glancing at her over the edge of his papers, or his laptop, or whatever he happens to be holding at the time.

She tries to avoid him as best as she can, currently having ducked into an abandoned dressing room. She jogs in place for a few minutes, warming herself up. She doesn't notice Bob's sitting in the corner until she hears a shoe dropping, and she her heart gets stuck in her throat. “Jesus christ, give a girl a warning, would you?”

“Sorry,” he says, grimacing as he laces bandage around his foot.

“Your foot looks kinda broken,” Frankie says, and sits next to him, scrunching up her nose.

“Part of it kinda is,” he says, tugging at the edge of one of his socks. He looks completely unperturbed, which seems to be his default reaction to everything. When Gerard told him he was an alcoholic, Bob just nodded, and said, “Thanks for telling me, it's very brave of you.” Gerard had actually blushed at that.

“So you're like a superhero then,” she says, handing him one of his shoes.

Bob snorts. “It's really not that bad. S'just a stress fracture on one of the phalanges.”

“Well it _sounds_ bad. And this is coming from someone who'se broken many, many a bone, Besides, you're doing great out there, so you're my superhero whether you want to be or not.”

“Great, huh?” The corner of Bob's mouth is tugging up, and he scratches his stubble, trying to hide it.

“Better than all of us.” Frankie's grinning now, nudges his knee with hers.

“Really?”

“Well, not better than me,” she says, and he's not trying to hide his grin anymore. “It's very tough living up to my level of greatness.”

“Of course.”

  
When they still stumble off the stage that night they're all frighteningly pale, covered with equal amounts of sweat as goosebumps. Gerard has almost lost his voice from smoking too much before the show, and Mikey's knuckles are white from holding on to his bass so hard. Brian repeats his mantra, slinging them each a towel, but this time he's smiling.

  
.

The contents of the mini fridge have been exactly the same for the past two weeks: neat rows of diet coke cans, a lonely packet of ground coffee wedged in the top corner and Frankie's veggie bacon at the very bottom, smooshed under everything else. She knows what to expect, but grunts all the same she opens the door, the same sight greeting her. She moves her bacon to the top (like she always does) and glares at Gerard where he's sitting, slowly sipping his coke, a cigarette perched between his fingers.

He doesn't seem to notice, eyes glued to his sketchpad. She wants to bang her head against the wall when the taste of stale coke in her mouth gets stronger, just from watching him. She wants beer, she really, really wants beer. But what she says is, “Any chance we're switching to Sprite or Snapple anytime soon? Or OJ, even, that would be absolutely _delectable_.”

Gerard jerks at the sound of her voice. He looks up from his drawings for a second, eyes darting over her face, and at the rest of the lounge. He seems surprised that they're alone, and his hand twitches as he takes a drag from his cigarette. “Um. I'm pretty sure there's still some coke in the fridge if you want that.”

“I noticed. We seem to be running really low on it though.”

“I can tell Ray to buy some more at the next stop, um,” Gerard says, train of thought lost. She watches the erratic movement his pen makes on his pad, and bites her lip as Gerard's free hand moves across his face; rubbing his forehead, nose, mouth. It would be cute if it didn't make Frankie's own hand itch to touch his jaw. She misses running her thumb across the lines of his face, watching his eyelids flutter.

He stays silent. Fingers brushing his paper, and tapping his pen against the pad. After a while he knocks on the sliding door to the bunks, yells, “Hey, Mikey, what color did you say the shield should be again?”

Mikey emerges from the bunks, and Frankie has to stop herself from sighing. She bites her lip before saying, “Good luck with that.” Keeping her tone as neutral as possible.

She dodges out of the bus, and watches as the crew's works on rolling the last of the equipment into the venue. She lights herself a cigarette, only taking a few drags before crushing it under her foot. It takes her longer than she'd like to admit to notice Bob helping them out. Half his face is covered with a beanie, and there's a wide grin splitting his face.

She regresses the urge to run up to him and climb on his back, joining in on the fun. There's no reason she'd be welcome, and his foot only just got better. One of the roadies nudges Bob's shoulder and laughter bellows from his direction. A guy she recognizes as Face To Face's guitar tech breaks away from the group and heads towards her.

“Gotta light?” He nods at the cigarette she'd dropped. He's got an unlit joint between his teeth, and she lights it for him, fumbling with the lighter she stole from Brian. He mumbles a thanks, narrowing his eyes.

“D'you know any good place to get a beer around here?” she asks, and the guy's mouth stretches, the blunt hanging loosely from his lips.

“Always,” he says, and slings an arm around her shoulder. The inside of his elbow is tight against her neck, and his hand is almost touching her chest. He offers her the joint, and she looks over at him when taking it, thinks, _okay_.

  
It's gotten dark by the time Mikey finds them. She's way past buzzed, rubbing her back against a brick wall and grinding against the still nameless guy's hand stuffed inside her jeans. He's licking a circle on her collarbone, lip ring digging into her skin, and she jerks her hips to meet with the thrust of his fingers. She hisses when his hand freezes says, “Jesus, fuck, don't fucking stop.”

The guy nudges her head in Mikey's direction, and she mutters a curse.

“We're on in thirty,” Mikey says, and Frankie shivers; she doesn't know if it's from the cold or the guy jerking his hand out of her pants.

  
.

Frankie's trying to telekinetically transport her toast to where she's sitting when Mikey shows up and stuffs one of the slices into his mouth. He makes an appreciative sound and she grunts.

“Delithious,” he says, taking an other bite even though his mouth is still full. He sounds way too perky for this time of morning. She'd still be sleeping if Ray and Bob hadn't been playing a game of tag in the bunks. They kept shouting, “No tag backs!” It still didn't make any sense to her, considering they were only two.

“Are you going to take my coffee too, or can you hand me my cup?” She asks, and Mikey plops it down in front of her, fast and easy.

“Morning tag victim?” He asks, and she nods. He finishes her toast, chewing slowly, the crunching sound digging its way into her skull.

She has to say something, anything. She's surprised when it ends up being, “I never meant to hurt him.”

He doesn't look confused, and she's thankful. “I know. He never meant to hurt you either. Didn't stop it from happening.”

“Are you. Are you going to tell him?” She tries to sound unaffected, and she's grateful that half her face is covered by her still unruly hair.

“S'not my place to, and it's not really his business anymore.” He plops two more slices of bread into the toaster. “But I've been told that I'm a good listener.” He butters the fresh toast and hands her the plate.

Her head and tongue feel like mush, and he's looking at her like he knows. She swallows, and says, “I'll keep that in mind.” Mikey pecks her on the cheek before taking a sip of her coffee. She swats at his hand, but he manages to finish it in one swoop.

  
.

Frankie's philosophy is that it's not snooping if the person you're doing it to has something of yours and it keeping it from you. All the guys know this by now – they've learned it the hard way – so when Ray neglects to give her the latest crossover issue of X-Men, even though it's her turn to read it? He's practically asking for her to go poking around his stuff.

She's prepared for the porn magazines, but she doesn't expect to find a paper with an unknown chord progression on it, and a number at the bottom. ”Hey, Toro, get in here,” she calls towards the lounge. He wanders in, and his eyes widen when he notices his neat piles of papers destroyed.

“Jesus, Frankie, give a guy a warning before snooping through his stuff.” He kneels down and starts shuffling everything back into its place, looking flustered.

“I didn't read through any of your dream interpretations, I've told you that stuff's completely uninteresting to those not actually having the dreams. But this,” she says, and waves the paper, “looks pretty rad. Is this something new you've been working on? Gerard got lyrics that need tunes?”

“Not really, no. It's um, something one of the Face To Face guys wanted my opinion on.”

“So the number's his? You can just walk over to their bus and tell them what you think, why'd you have to call?”

Ray sits down in his bunk and looks up at her. “He's kind of. Getting his own band? And just wondered if it looked usable...” He shrugs, and averts his eyes. She folds the paper carefully, holds it between the tips of her fingers.

“He wants you to be in the band, doesn't he.”

“I'm not taking it, I told him I'm not interested,” he says, sighs. He chews on his lip, and then continues, every word sounding carefully chosen, “I can give him your name if you want. He really does need someone, he seems serious.”

“Why – why would you do that? Why do you think I'd want that?” He's still not looking at her, and her eyes are so wide there's pressure blooming behind them.

“I know we're not doing that well right now, but we're all trying. We're just working with the cards we've been dealt.”

“And I'm not?”

“That's not.” He rests his elbows on his thighs. ”That's not what I'm saying. I know this is hard, especially for you. It's hard for all of us. I'm just giving you an out.”

“I don't need it. I don't need special treatment. I never have, and I don't expect it now.” She puts weight behind every word, willing them to sink in. She wants this, and she doesn't want Ray to think otherwise.

He looks at her in disbelief and says, “Okay.” She doesn't know what else to say.

  
.

Frankie leans down from her bunk and fakes a knocking sound as she pulls Bob's bunk curtains apart. “Mind if I join you?”

“'M reading,” he says, and turns a page.

She grins. “I can see that, you're very predictable, Bob. Any reason you're doing it upside down?”

He shoots her a look, returns to his book. “You know, that can't be healthy. Your face is turning red. Like tomato red.”

She braces herself on the edge of her bunk and swings down, diving into his bunk. She lands ungracefully, bracing herself on Bob's chest. He puts down his book, and sighs, but doesn't seem bothered.

He watches as she wriggles her way under the covers. She says, “You're right, this feels much better.”

“Is this swap a bunk day? Because I'm not taking yours in the state it's in.”

“I was thinking more share-a-bunk,” she says, and grins. “Thought you could use the company.”

“Oh yeah?” He shifts in the bunk, giving her more space, and Frankie notices a bandage around his wrist when he moves one of his pillows towards her.

“Is your wrist okay?” She takes his hand, and smooths the swollen skin. “Every time I see you, you've got a new injury.”

“Yeah, it just needs some rest.”

“Too much monkey spanking, huh,” she says and her lips tugs up. His hand tenses in her grasp, and for a second she thinks he's going to jerk it away. He doesn't, lets out a soft chuckle instead, and she leans into him.

“Don't let us work you too hard. You only get one superhero after all, wouldn't want to lose ours just cause we were greedy.”

She presses a kiss on his chest, and smooths his t-shirt with her hand. She can feel his ribcage rising and falling and lets her hand rest where she can feel his heartbeat. He clears his throat and stares at the edge of the curtain, says, “I. I thought I was yours?” .

“Yeah. Yeah, you are. You know, super-Bob, I think I have a mission for you.”

He raises one eyebrow, says, “Oh, really?”

“Mhmm. You should help me cut my hair.” She gets up, and he follows, eyebrow still raised and eyes narrowed.

“I'm not very good with hair,” he sounds hesitant but lets her drag him along to the bathroom. “And I don't think we even have scissors.”

“Are you serious? Of course we've got scissors, we're living with Gerard.” She leaves him for a second, a quick shuffle through Gerard's art supplies, and she returns with a pair of arts and crafts scissors, wearing a triumphant smile.

“It's not meant to be good, just, make sure my neck's visible. You can keep it longer in the middle, a sort of mohawky thing would be nice.”

He stands still for a while, says, “I did mention I'm not good with hair, right? There's a reason I'm not clean shaven.”

She rolls her eyes and cuts of a long strand of hair on her own, tossing it into the sink. “Seriously, go nuts. ”

She doesn't watch as he cuts, relishes the sound of the scissors and the feel of Bob's hands in her hair. She only notices he's done when he brushes the hair around her ears, and one of his fingers grazes her neck tattoo.

“Huh.” He jerks his hand away when she leans into the touch. ”I uh, didn't know you had one of these.”

“You can touch it, it's fine,” she says, taking his hand to her neck. She covers his hand with hers, it's dry and warm, much bigger than hers. She watches him trace the edges of the scorpion in the mirror.

He lets go, and his head curves down towards her neck. He kisses the corner of her jaw, tentative and brief, and she turns around, letting his stubble tickle her face as she kisses him. He moves his hands to the center of her back, and she lets him hold her up as he takes her piercing between his teeth, and mashes her face against his.

  
.

There are times when the downtime between shows feels like a countdown to Frankie getting sick. Ray keeps tabs of the amount of times she sneezes, and once she catches Mikey keeping time during one of her coughing fits. When she hits the snooze button too many times Bob's hand winds up on her forehead (she doesn't know how sending him is supposed to be an incentive for her to get up:she usually ends up pulling him in, digging her face into the crook of his neck and leaving bite marks on his collarbone). They all want her best, but they're driving her mad.

It's a surprise to everyone when Gerard's the one who ends up sick. No one bats a lash when he sneezes four times one morning and blows his nose, but by the next day he's completely congested, and red eyed. It's not completely out of left-field, but Mikey blinks rapidly, as flabbergasted as he can get and Ray sends runners for any and all herbal remedies they can get their hands on.

“Too much coffee and cigarettes,” Frankie says. “Fucked up your immune system.”

Gerard wheezes from the lounge couch. “Gotta pick your poithonth.” His voice drags more than usual. Her fingers stroke his forehead, the skin clammy and warm.

“Need Nyquil,” Gerard sputters, and curls into himself, knees almost knocking Frankie to the floor. “Can't sleep.”

“Yeah, well, you're not getting any Nyquil.”

“Just a little. A tiny tiny tiny drop, Fran, please. I know where it is, I can just – ” he interrupts himself, attempting to sit up straight and failing.

“No fucking Nyquil. We shouldn't even have any on the bus.”

“I think we have some chamomile tea, if you think that'd help,” Bob says, biting his lip, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. He doesn't wait for her answer, turns on the water heater and starts looking through the small jar containing tea bags.

“I think we've got some honey somewhere, Ray probably sent for five different kinds” she says, and Bob nods, starts rifling through the cabinets.

Gerard props himself against her, and pushes his fingers into her hair. It's making Frankie uncomfortable, his breathing hot on her cheek and his swollen eyes staring at her. He blinks. “I like your hair like that. It's different. Good different.” He coughs, and collapses back down onto the couch.

“You should rest your voice. Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere. You're loopy enough as it is.” She can feel Bob's stare burning into her back of her head.

  
“You shouldn't be so hard on him,” Bob says, a cloud of smoke blooming from the corner of his mouth. He massages the back of her neck with his hand, thumb wearing a circle at the base of her skull; pressure firm and strong. The wind blows the smoke back in her direction. “S'not his fault.” She digs her shoes into the gravel, lets it cover her toes.

“You don't know _shit_.” She practically spits it out, and he lets go of her neck.

“Displacement doesn't suit you.” He drops his cigarette and crushes it with his foot. “I'm all for expressing ones emotions, but I'm not a welcome mat, and I don't appreciate being talked down to.”

He looks at her like he expects something; an apology. She can't bring herself to say anything and she gets a bitter taste in her mouth when he leaves, and she sucks on her cigarette, a shiver running down her spine.

  
Gerard's still on the couch when she comes back, pharmacy bag in hand. The table's sticky from honey and lemon juice, and the tea cup's only half empty. She shakes his shoulder, practically carrying his weight when they staple of to the bunks.

“C'mon, let me help,” she says, and lifts Gerard's shirt from his back as he shivers.

“You'll get sick. You shouldn't get sick.”

“I'll be fine. As long as my fingers work we'll be fine.We need all of you though.” She rubs vaporub onto his chest, bones hard against the heel of her palm. He's thinner, not by much, but it's still noticeable. Her touch is clinical and unfamiliar, and that alone makes her uneasy.

She waits until his breathing deepens before dressing him again. The lines and edges of his body making him feel unfamiliar as she drags a hoodie over his head. She only has to nudge him towards his bunk for him to crawl into it, his hand still holding hers, and she follows.

His breathing is labored even after he falls asleep, but the tension in his face is gone, lines smoothed out and mouth agape. She rolls out of his bunk, leaving the drapes open, and takes a quick shower. The water's cold, and it's quick and rough, scrubbing her skin raw.

She's shaking when he climbs into Bob's bunk, expecting him to push her back out. He doesn't; he wraps one arm around her, pulling her closer. She lets herself relax, the familiar plane of his chest pressing into her back. He kisses the back of her head.

“Ray told me 'bout what happened.” His voice is hoarse, and his arms are tight around her.

She whispers, “I'm sorry for being a bitch.” She doesn't think he heard her until he squeezes her hand. It's the most welcome she's felt in months

  
.

“I realize your grossness threshold is really high, but since your sense of smell is coming back I feel I need to inform you that the kitchenette is really disgusting right now. I think a legion of alien species will erupt from the crockpot any day now.” She pauses. “And you and your brother stink. But I don't think that will be news.”

“Traditional dirty bastard chicken game?” Gerard says, ignoring her last comment.

“Something like that, yeah.”

He snorts. “Can't be that bad with Brian around.”

“You would think so, but I think he's given up. He's just Febreezing a path for himself before going anywhere at this point.” She laughs. “Mikey actually did this thing when we where having itinerary planning, where he sat next to him and kept moving closer? And Brian just kept moving away, he actually fell off the couch.”

“I can't believe I missed that,” Gerard says, and it's fragmented, broken up by laughter. “I have taught him well.”

She makes a face. “So gross.”

Gerard's still laughing, back curved and head resting on her back. He catches his breath there, staying silent. His palm presses against her shoulder and his fingers wrap around; she stiffens. “I'm sorry.”

“I haven't gotten sick yet, there's nothing to apologize about,” she says, trying to keep the mood light.

“You know what I mean.” His hand drops from her shoulder. “You didn't deserve all that shit. I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't about me. The drinking and the,” she pauses, thumb rubbing her eyebrow. “You don't owe me an apology. You don't owe me anything.” She hopes it doesn't sound too rehearsed.

He moves behind her, suddenly. He's trying to sound level when he says, “That's such fucking bullshit.”

She looks back at him. “No one would let me talk to you.”

“I didn't. I didn't want you to see me like that. I didn't want to drag you back down.”

“And it didn't cross your mind that maybe I _wanted_ to see you? I didn't stop caring about you, you know. It fucking hurt. Being a leper _sucks_.”

Gerard doesn't say anything for a while, and it's oddly comfortable, just the two of them silent. She doesn't expect him to say anything more when he does.

“I'm glad you moved on.” She looks at him in disbelief, and he lets out a short dry laugh. ”Maybe glad's an exaggeration. But I have to deal with it, and it might as well be now, and it might as well be him. You need it. I need it in a way. No illusions. No wishful thinking.” His words hit her in the throat, and she has to look away, swallowing them down.

He continues, “I'm glad I don't have to see or hear any of it, thank you by the way. But yeah.”

“What if. If it happens again?” It's the one thing that's been gnawing at her, and it hurts to say.

“What, what if Bob turns into a raging alcoholic slash recreational drug user and you justifiably break up with him?”

“ _Hey,_ ” she says, voice sharp. “Don't do that. It wasn't your fault, everything wasn't your fault.”

“I'm gonna have to work on that.” He forces a small smile. She cups his face with her hand, and he nods into it. “We're still standing, aren't we?”

“Yeah. I guess we are.” He presses a kiss to her palm.

  
.

Gerard kisses her on stage that night. It's sloppy, a loud wet smack on her temple, and fingers taking a grip of her hair.

She rests her forehead against his shoulder, letting her tension spill. Gerard looks at her when she gets up, and she smiles, spitting on the ground before turning against the bright lights above the backdrop and taking a leap towards Bob's drumkit.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for rue_quercus in the Bandom Het fic challenge. The request was "girl!Frank/any member of MCR", so of course I ended up with two pairings. Title from Sarah Slean's _Universe_ & cut tag from Stars's _Life Effect_ (which along with Kent were on heavy rotation while writing). Many thanks to [](http://softlyforgotten.livejournal.com/profile)[**softlyforgotten**](http://softlyforgotten.livejournal.com/) for the beta ♥ There's so much more I wanted to say about this one, but I'll spare you guys.  
> 


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